The Ring of Solomon

horrid speed across the stonework and sprang at Asmira’s face. She jerked backwards; its teeth clashed on empty air. Asmira caught the foliot by the neck and held it outstretched, ignoring the snapping mouth and flailing claws and whiplash tail, which with each stroke bit into her arms.
    Gezeri frothed and fought, and with sinewy strength began to tear free of her grip. Asmira felt her strength waning. She tore the silver pendant from around her neck and shoved it with full force into the open mouth.
    The foliot’s eyes bulged. It made a low, hoarse gargling sound, half lost among the steam and vapours gushing from its jaws. Its body swelled; its thrashing limbs grew stiff. Asmira flung it to the ground, where it fizzed and jerked and popped, and presently became a blackened husk that subsided and was gone.
    She turned to the Egyptian, but he had moved away from the edge, and with bloodied hands was scrabbling at his belt, where hung a whip of many thongs. He cracked it – a movement both weak and perfunctory. Yellow coils of magic burst feebly at the flail’s end, scoring lines in stone, but they did not reach Asmira, who jumped back out of range.
    The magician gazed at her; his eyes were misty with pain and hate. ‘Leap and scamper all you like, girl. I have other servants. I will bring them here. And when Ammet is back …’ He made as if to strike again, but was distracted by his wounded hand, from which the blood was flowing. He sought to staunch it on the fabric of his robes.
    Asmira thought of Bartimaeus fleeing with the shadow at his back. If it was a marid, as Bartimaeus had said, the djinni could not withstand it long. Soon, very soon, he would be caught and killed, and the Ring returned to Khaba. Unless …
    If she were quick enough she might save her djinni yet, and after him, Jerusalem.
    But all her knives were gone. She needed help. She needed –
    There, behind her: the arch that led to the royal chambers.
    Asmira turned and ran.
    ‘Yes, flee! Flee as far as you like!’ Khaba called. ‘I will attend to you as soon as I call my slaves. Beyzer! Chosroes! Nimshik! Where are you? Come to me!’
    After all the turmoil and the darkness and the smoke outside, the placid, sparkling interior of the golden room felt strange, unreal. As before, the plunge-pool steamed, the enchanted foodstuffs glistened on their plates and the crystal globe’s surface swam with milky light. Asmira was about to edge past without looking at the Glamour, when she came to a dead halt.
    A man stood watching her from the far side of the room. ‘Having a little trouble, are we?’ King Solomon of Israel said.

34
    T hrow it in the sea. Throw it in the sea. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? And like all the girl’s commands it was simple, at least in concept. It was doing it alive that was the problem.
    Forty miles separates Jerusalem from the coast. Not far. Ordinarily a phoenix can manage that in twenty minutes, and still have time for occasional picnic-stops and diversions to inspect the views. 1 But circumstances weren’t ordinary here. Not in the slightest. The palace was burning, the planes were still quivering from the eruption of the spirit hordes, the fate of the world hung in the balance – oh, and I was holding the Ring of Solomon in my beak.
    Actually, to be precise, I was holding Khaba’s severed finger, with the Ring still on it. To spare the feelings of squeamish readers I won’t go into any further details.
    Except to say that it was like smoking a cigar. A small, slightly wonky cigar, with a gold band wedged near the lit end. There. Picture it now? Good.
    It was still warm as well, and had just stopped dripping, but I’m not going to mention that.
    Suffice it to say, all things considered, it wasn’t the nicest body-part I’ve ever had to carry, 2 but even so it had a very useful function. It meant I didn’t have to touch the Ring, and so was spared that particular dose of pain.
    There was plenty more on offer, though. I had Ammet close behind.
    Through the ruins of Solomon’s palace the phoenix sped, keeping to the areas which had seen most devastation in Khaba’s brief attack. Half the place seemed to be on fire, while the remainder was swathed in a heavy smog of drifting magic. It was grey, but still shimmering with potent traces; my plumage stung as I flew amongst them, weaving and bobbing to avoid thicker knots of lingering spells. Many such clumps hung close about the shattered domes and turrets,